Page 46 of F*ck Marriage

“You certainly had the floral print thing down…”

“I hate you,” I say, but there’s not enough conviction in my voice for either of us to believe it.

He laughs and it warms me right down to my toes, which I wriggle in my shoes. I shake my head, pressing back my smile.

“It wasn’t just your look that changed though, was it, Billie?”

“What do you mean?” Though I know exactly what he’s talking about.

He leans forward like he’s going to tell me a secret, and automatically, I bend toward him too.

“Once upon a time, a girl with fishnet stockings, a leather jacket, and black fingernails got high with me and danced on my kitchen table.”

“Until I broke the table ... sorry about that.”

“It was a nice table.” He nods, frowning. “And it died in an honorable way…”

I snicker.

“You went to parties just for the free food and booze…”

“I put on ten pounds that year.”

“You got a tattoo on your inner thigh that said:This way to paradise.”

“It cost me fifteen hundred dollars to have that removed.” I shake my head.

“You stopped owning who you were and became something else.”

“People evolve, Satcher. We aren’t supposed to stay the same.” I throw his words back at him, but he’s shaking his head before I’m even finished.

“People evolve, yes. That’s healthy. But they don’t change everything about who they are unless they have a good reason, and Billie, you’re unrecognizable.”

I frown at how his words make me feel. When was it exactly that I traded my edge for a good corn chowder recipe? The blog—I’d started to change when the blog did well. I remember scouring other blogs, studying what they did that garnered the most readers. Then I reinvented myself to match the blog, instead of having the blog match me. I deflate, pressing my lips together as I stare at Satcher.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Get sad about what you lost.”

“You just pointed out that I lost myself and you expect me not to be sad about it?”

“Well, maybe it’s time to find yourself again. Meet your old self somewhere in the middle.”

“Good advice.” I pick up my beer and drain it, then I shake my glass at Satcher. “Another.”

Idon’t know how it happens, except I do. I was having a surprisingly good time: Satcher teasing me, me teasing back. At one point I jumped up to dance to a Billy Idol song that was playing while Satcher spun around in his stool to watch me. If I’d ever felt carefree it was now, in this bar, with this man. Carefree: the old me. Pre-floral print and the blog. Pre-Woods and Pearl.

Three drinks and two shots and Satcher is helping me up the stairs to Jules’ apartment.

“Are there no goddamn lights in this building?” he growls.

The tip of my shoe catches on the stairs and he steadies me. We reach the front door, and I lean against the wall as Satcher searches my bag for my keys.

“You can still see it, you know?”

He puts my key in the lock and turns it. “What?”

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